Musical Chairs: Rare and Odd HP Character Pairings
by fanfic n00b
Summary: A collection of 20 short scenes between characters who are rarely, if ever, seen together in canon. "Offscreen" or "deleted scene" type moments. Some silly, some sweet, some dark. Some are Marauders-era, some post-epilogue, some canon-contiguous. Lots of Teddy, Remus, Lily, Snape, and Potter-Weasley kiddos.
1. The Closed Ward: Lupin & Longbottom

"Happy Christmas, Alice."

She looks lost, as always. He presses on, as always.

"Neville is a joy. He did beautifully against a boggart in our first lesson together. His boggart - well, I don't know if you knew Severus Snape, he must have been about twelve the last time you saw him - suffice it to say, he's teaching now as well, and he's less than pleasant. But Neville put him in Augusta's clothes, which was very entertaining."

Lupin stirs a lump of sugar into her tea and gently closes her fingers around the cup. She looks so much older now than when they were in the Order together. He supposes he must look older, too. And whereas she has no memories, he has nothing but memories. He would give his to her, if he could.

He remembers her, before. Alice Longbottom, the witch who used to duel three Death Eaters at once. The witch who would get wild-eyed after a few drinks and go on long, expletive-ridden tirades about muggleborn rights and centaur land disputes. The witch who always gave him plants for Christmas, even though he didn't have a real home to keep them in, so she would put them in her own garden for him, 'for safekeeping,' and then he'd visit her, and she would say, 'Look, Remus, how well your columbine is doing.'

And Frank, he of the photographic memory, born to be an Auror, he who never, ever forgot a face - how ironic that he remembers no faces at all now. Long ago, at particularly dull Order meetings, Frank would make dry, witty asides under his breath, and if you were lucky enough to be within earshot, you'd spit out your butterbeer from laughing. And sometimes, on holidays and birthdays, he would play the piano and sing with a clear, pitch-perfect tenor.

But the Order days are long gone, and Remus cannot afford to linger in recollection with old colleagues this year. The moon is waxing. And there are papers to grade. He rearranges their pillows and stands.

"Until next year, old friends," he says, drawing the curtains and leaving the closed ward behind.


	2. Spilled: Snape and Cho Chang

Like any veteran teacher, Professor Snape tolerates less from his students at the start of term. Less quibbling, less questioning, less whimpering. Best to start from a position of maximum gravitas before the inevitable slide downhill.

So Cho Chang is testing his resolve, mopping up her fantastically spilled purple elixir at the back of the classroom while the rest of the sixth-year Ravenclaws file out from their first Potions lesson of the year. Normally, she is a decent student. She does her research. She does not annoy him with silly mistakes, insolent questions, or adolescent nattering. But a summer of grieving for Cedric Diggory has done her no favors.

She's not actually crying, not actually emitting any sound, but under her dark fringe, her eyelashes stick together with half-shed tears, like blades of grass bonded with dew.

Like himself, she is the first of her generation to lose a lover. (Does one awkward kiss on the side of your mouth count as lovers? No noun exists for what he and Lily were to one another. Almost-lovers, friends, murderer and victim - each true in their own way.) Because Cho is first, none of her classmates know how to comfort her, what to say to her. But she certainly won't be the last. No, he has seen the red embers of vengeance in the Dark Lord's eyes, and he knows worse is coming.

However, he knows that Cho is infinitely fortunate, and here is why: Cedric's death is not her fault. She will not have to spend the rest of her life atoning for the mistakes of youth. If she is smart, and she doesn't let grief swallow her, she can move past it, love someone else, live her own life. This is something he can never do.

But at the moment, she seems determined not to realize how lucky she is. She dabs at the violet pools of potion, her trembling fingers wrapped in cleaning rags, and her lip wobbles.

Abandoning caution, the professor vanishes the rest of her mess nonverbally with a flick of his wand.

She looks up at him, her dark eyes rimmed with red and wide with surprise.

"Try harder, Miss Chang," he says, sweeping out the door, leaving her alone in the dungeon with nothing to mop but her eyes.


	3. Coming and Going: Regulus and Peter

_Peter,_ he remembers, as if recalling this name from a past life. Which, in a way, he is. _Peter Pettigrew_.

Regulus recognizes the young man as one of Sirius' school friends - that short, shrill-voiced one who was always sneaking extra helpings of trifle.

Peter is not chained, and, though he looks mousy and twitchy as ever, Peter does not seem particularly ill at ease. Nor does he bear the hallmarks of the Imperius curse - the vacant eyes, the servile manner. No, Regulus decides as he pulls back a carved oak chair between Avery and Goyle, no, Peter is not a captive. Peter is here very much on his own account.

_So_, Regulus thinks. _Peter has gone over._ What ramifications this has for Sirius, or for others, Regulus cannot guess. His heart already overflows with the thoughts that have robbed him of sleep for the last four days – Kreacher. The lake. The locket.

Peter speaks. "The - the prophecy. The boy. I have news on that score."

But Regulus barely hears him. He can almost feel the cold hands of inferi dragging him beneath the waves, and hear the eerie ticking of a locket full of severed soul. Tonight he will ask Kreacher to take him there. Tonight he will strike one small blow against this red-eyed devil who sits, cackling, at the end of this long table, plotting the death of a toddler.

There is no time to send word to Sirius.

Tonight Regulus will do as all good seekers do: seek, and find, and end the game.


	4. Stuck: Hermione and Portrait Snape

"Higher."

"Like this?"

"Nah, to the right again. He's all lopsided now."

"Oh, honestly, Ron. Why don't you come and do it?"

Ron met Hermione's eyes and opened his mouth. For a moment it looked like they might start yelling. But what came out was laughter. Harry, Ginny, and Luna visibly relaxed. Hermione and Harry each held one side of the heavy, golden frame which contained the ink-dark portrait of a sleeping professor. The circular Headmaster's office was newly neat again, the gargoyle repaired, and the new password suitably businesslike.

"Where did Neville run off to? He can't be hiding. I didn't think he minded Snape anymore," said Ron.

"He said he was going to find Professor Sprout. And, I don't know, do you think he can hear us?" pondered Hermione aloud, flicking her eyes toward the portrait.

"He hasn't moved," Harry observed. "Maybe it doesn't work properly until you mount it to the wall with a permanent sticking charm or something."

"Or maybe he's pretending," said Luna, trailing her fingers dreamily along one of the silver instruments that Dumbledore had bequeathed to McGonagall.

"Yeah, well, either way, he's listing to the left again," said Ron.

"Right, I've had enough of this," said Ginny, looking exasperated. "_Adhero!_"

There was a great sucking sound that reminded Hermione vaguely of the giant squid, and then the gilded frame stuck to the wall, its edges perfectly perpendicular to the floor. Harry cheered and kissed Ginny, who threw up her arms in mock annoyance. But Hermione caught Ginny smiling like her twelve-year-old girl-with-a-crush self again.

"Well, that's done. Anybody want to go down to the kitchens and see if they've got sandwiches? I'm starving," said Ron.

"When you say _they_, do you mean those pixies that live behind that painting of the pears?" asked Luna.

Ron stifled a laugh into his sleeve. Rather more politely than he usually did, Hermione noted. Alright, maybe he was getting better, she thought. If he kept this up, she might let him do that thing he kept begging her to let him try. But later. Once Harry was out of the way. Surely it must be disconcerting for Harry to be the third wheel all of a sudden.

However, if Harry was upset about anything at the moment, he wasn't showing it. He looked more relaxed than she had ever seen him.

"Come on, let's find Neville and ask what he did with the Sword of Gryffindor," said Harry.

"Kept it as a souvenir, I expect," said Ron.

Harry, Ron, Ginny, and Luna filed out, joking and talking as only survivors of half-tragic victories can, but Hermione stayed behind on the pretense of readjusting the contents of her beaded bag.

She peered up at the dark portrait, searching for signs of life. Well, not life, she mused, but animation. She had never noticed how melancholy Professor Snape looked at this angle. She usually thought of him as _difficult_ or _clever_ or sometimes _quite unpleasant_, but not melancholy. Perhaps it was something about the greenish light filtering through the indigo hangings in the back of the painting. For a moment, she wondered if they had done a cruel thing, trapping some version of him here forever, without his beloved. Though, of course, it wasn't really him.

"Anyway," she said quietly. "Thanks for saving all our lives. I don't know if that helps. You never did get that Order of Merlin. But Harry lived, you know. So it wasn't all for nothing."

As she turned to leave, she could have sworn she saw him smirk.


	5. Dueling is Fun: Potter and Malfoy

"Alright, Potter," sneered Malfoy, drawing his wand. "We duel on the count of three." His pale, pointed face was aglow with April morning sunlight, and his nose twitched as he suppressed a sneeze – he was deeply allergic to pollen.

"And may we bring glory to the houses of our fathers," said Potter melodramatically, adjusting his glasses.

"And may the victor be immortalized on a chocolate frog card," said Malfoy.

Birds twittered in the trees. A single chicken wandered across the path of the two boys, and they both shooed it away. Then they drew themselves up to their full heights – though, at twelve years old, they were still rather scrawny – and pointed their wands at one another.

"One!"

"Two!"

"Oy!" called Ron, who had been watching them out of the open kitchen window. "You lot aren't allowed to do magic outside school."

Albus Potter groaned. "I _know_, Uncle Ron. We weren't _really_ going to do any spells."

"Yeah," chirped Scorpius Malfoy, "just made-up ones. _Hocus pocus willy waldo wingo dingo_-"

Ron finished drying the dishes and put the kettle on. "Right," he called down to the two boys. "Just don't get carried away. That happens, in dueling."

Scorpius let out an undignified sneeze that recalled Nymphadora Tonks more than Draco Malfoy. Albus chuckled.

Ron turned to Hermione and Harry, who were sharing a plate of scones and reading the paper at the breakfast table. "I'm never going to get over the sight of the two of them together," said Ron. "They look exactly like you and Malfoy. Draco, I mean. It's bizarre."

Hermione smirked. Harry shrugged.

"I mean, it's good they're friends, I suppose," Ron continued. "But who'd ever have thought we'd be hosting a miniature Malfoy for the Easter holidays?"

Harry shrugged again. "Scorpius is very neat. I think he actually convinced Al to tidy his room. Voluntarily. Which is a first."

Ron shook his head, clearing away flashbacks to the ill-fated dueling club during his second year at Hogwarts.

Outside, the boys had grown bored with dueling and were climbing a tree. Their laughter rang out across the yard.


	6. The Need for Charms: Flitwick and Lily

Professor Flitwick _Apparated_ directly into the Potters' back garden, within the protection of the Fidelius charm. Butterflies bobbed above the summer flowers. Lily pushed open the back door, carrying her baby in a cotton sling across her chest. James followed behind her.

They looked so young. Had it truly been three years ago that they left school?

"Thank you," she said, bending down to hug the Professor in greeting. "Thank you for coming."

He nodded. "Pomona would be happy that you've kept up with your Herbology," he said, gesturing at their flowers.

They invited him inside, and James made a pot of strong darjeeling, and Flitwick caught them up the goings-on of Hogwarts – the pranks, the romantic gossip, the funniest moments of last year's Sorting. Harry gurgled on cue and all three adults laughed. For a half hour, they might simply have been former students catching up with a beloved teacher in a cozy kitchen. This might have been no more than a happy reunion.

But they weren't. It wasn't.

Remembering this, Flitwick produced a leather pouch from under his robes, _Summoned_ the stack of heavy, leather-bound books within the undetectable extension, and set them down on the kitchen table. The legs of the table groaned under their new burden.

"This'll make lovely bedtime reading, Professor. Thanks a lot," said James, his eyes glittering with amusement.

Lily, on the other hand, looked earnest. She brushed her fingers along the spines of the three huge tomes. Then she nodded, though nobody had asked her a question.

"Yes. Thank you," she said again.

"I bookmarked the protective charms you mentioned," Flitwick said, his voice taking on new gravity.

She tapped the topmost volume with her wand, and the book hinged open to a bookmarked page with a series of woodcut illustrations.

Then, because she had the right to know, or maybe because he could not help himself, Flitwick said, "Some of the charms you asked about – some demand more than force of will alone. I hope you never have occasion to use them."

Her eyes shot to Harry, then James, and then to Flitwick again.

And, in that instant, he knew.

He knew she hadn't been looking for just another protective charm. She already had a Fidelius charm; she was looking for backup. Something deeper and darker, something that could not be compromised by a change of heart or diluted if the secret-keeper died. He knew, too, that she would find it. Perhaps she already knew it and merely wanted to confirm it.

Minutes later, Flitwick departed from the same spot in the garden. "Look after yourselves," he called to the little family framed by the open door.

As he twisted through shifting, tight darkness, he hoped against hope that she would never have to use that charm.


	7. Whinging: Lily and Frank

Frank devoured yet another Jaffa cake while Lily dumped sugar into her Earl Grey. They played a few rounds of exploding snap at his kitchen table. She regarded him as he shuffled the cards.

Age had done him a few favors. No longer the chubby, bucktoothed fourth-year she remembered from their first meeting, he had developed angles and long, lean lines, and he now resembled one of the Monty Python blokes whose name she could not recall. The fanciable one.

"Thanks for rescuing me," she said.

"Happy to. I remember summers without magic, when I was your age. They're crap."

"Yeah. They are."

He dealt the cards.

"Can I ask you a serious question?" she asked.

"Sure," he said.

"This fight you just had with Alice – you didn't actually harm one another?" she asked.

"Only psychologically."

"Alright. I mean, not _alright,_ but you know what I mean."

She remembered another row, years ago, overheard through the walls of Sev's bedroom – Eileen and Tobias tearing each other apart, and although Sev had learned not to flinch, Lily never had... So she'd had to check.

"Yes, Alice knows exactly where to stick the knife in. I'll grant her that," he said. The three cards he was holding burst into flame.

"Draw," Lily said. "Sorry."

"I could do with some more of your cheerful Muggle expressions, Lily. What's the one?"

"Zowie," she said.

"Yeah," he said, smiling for the first time in hours. "I like that one."

"Glad I amuse. So is Alice moving out, or are you still together?"

"I have no fucking idea."

"But you still love her."

"Yeah. Because I'm a pansy."

One of Lily's cards began to smoke dangerously. She held them as far away from her face as possible.

"Now_ I_ get to ask _you_ a question," he said.

"Ask away."

"What happened with you and Snape? You were all chummy when I was at school with you. I thought you usually spent summers with him. I thought that was your thing."

She could feel herself shoot flaming daggers at him with her eyes.

"Shit. Sorry. That was out of order, wasn't it," he said.

"Don't worry about it."

"That was a crap question."

"It's a crap situation. I know you weren't there. Some of the blame must go to James effing Potter, who thought it would be terribly droll to set a levicorpus spell on him in front of half the school. Do you know Severus invented that spell? Ugh."

"Haven't ever heard of it."

"Well, no, I suppose you wouldn't have. It's a recent invention. But it's become very popular at Hogwarts. Anyway, Sev said some things that I know he regrets, but he doesn't regret them for the right reasons. He's turned into a right bastard, actually. Broke my heart, too, because I loved him. You know? _Adored._ Since always. _Fucker_. God, I can't believe I'm whinging to you about this shit. I told myself I would never speak about it again."

"I like your whinging. It goes well with my kvetching."

The deck burst into flame and singed their eyebrows.

"Want to play another round?" he asked, summoning the teapot again.

"Actually, I was hoping I could entice you to play the piano," she said, gesturing at the three-legged instrument in the middle of the sitting room. "I miss you playing the one in the Gryffindor common room. Nobody else can play the damn thing. Some people have guitars, but it's not the same."

"I will. But only if you sing. Do you like pop songs or sappy nineteenth century stuff?"

She grinned. "Alice is a fool. I would marry you tomorrow."

"Thanks. But you're way too young for me, Lily. And not nearly psychotic enough."

She punched him in the shoulder. "Now you're just being mean to Alice."

"Yes. I am. But you haven't seen her in Auror training. She can duel three people at once. THREE. NOBODY does that. Nobody sane, anyway. And she stunned our instructor twice the first day."

"I bet it's cute when she does it."

"Yeah, cute and terrifying. This is the woman I love. Ugh."

She kicked him under the table. "Just marry her and have done with it, you prat."

He rolled his eyes. "Pick a song, any song, and I'll play it."

"_Find Me Somebody to Love_."

"Oh, I've never done that one. You'll have to help me figure it out. You're musical, aren't you?"

She kicked him again. "Stop being charming or I really will come over there and snog you."

He sighed. "Christ, Lily. I'm trying to be a gentleman."

She raised her eyebrows. "What are you saying?"

He buried his face in his hands. "You ring me up all breathless and ask me to get you the hell out of Cokeworth, and you sit here in my kitchen being surly and adorable. You know surly is my kryptonite. And in case you hadn't noticed, you're sixteen, I'm twenty. It would be wildly inappropriate for me to consent to your advances."

She scooted closer to him and put her head down next to his. "Hey. Look. Let's make one of those pacts. If we're both still single in ten years, let's marry each other."

"Pfft. Ten years is not that long."

"It is when there's a war on."

"Alright. There's something to that." He opened his hands and looked at her. "Alright, I do feel cheered up a bit. This helps. This is helping."

"Good," she said. She kissed his cheek. "But we both know that will never happen. You'll marry Alice and make tons of frighteningly gifted wizard babies."

"And what will you do?"

"Oh. Practice celibacy and teach Potions at Hogwarts. And plot against Voldemort in my spare time."

"What, like some kind of warrior-professor-nun?"

"Yep. That's almost certainly what will happen."

He snorted at her. "Fat chance. Ten galleons says you marry some good-looking cad with a heart of gold."

"Could still do the other stuff, though."

"Yes. I hope you do."

"Me too."

He crossed to the piano and played an arpeggio. "How does this go? I know the chorus is 'find me somebody to love,' but how does it start?"

She followed him and sang a capella. He vamped for a while and then launched into the first verse.

In the end, it was a decent afternoon for both of them.


	8. Dark Tunnels: James and Severus

The two boys had not spoken for several minutes. Never in their lives had they been in such close proximity without hexing or insulting one another. However, Severus' arms were still scratched from where James had forcibly pulled him away from the entrance to the shrieking shack, and James' left ear was still ringing from where Severus had yelled directly into it.

James kicked a bit of leaf litter as he walked. He had just saved Snape's life. That, and somehow, walking quietly together created a bizarre intimacy between them. And maybe it was because he was away from his friends, or because his heart was still pumping with adrenaline and protective instinct, but James didn't particularly feel like teasing Snape at the moment. He felt weirdly civil.

James cleared his throat. "What're you talking about with Evans all the time?"

"Fuck off, Potter," said Severus. "This doesn't change anything. So don't act like I owe you."

James clucked his tongue. "Fine. I just wondered what the hell she sees in you."

"S'none of your goddamn business."

They both bent lower as the tunnel narrowed and tilted upward.

"It just doesn't make sense to me. Why a witch like her spends time on a git like you."

"Christ, learn to shut your mouth, Potter." Snape's dark eyes darted furtively across his shoulder. The scrabbling and whining of the wolf was still audible.

"He can't get out," said James, sensing Snape's fear. "I set a shield charm."

Severus spat. "Serve you right if he kills you. You know he would, given the chance."

James' temper flared. He grabbed Snape's robes and pinned him against the earth wall, dislodging a miniature avalanche of pebbles and dust. "The fuck's your problem?"

"Don't fucking touch me!"

Jaws clenched. Fingers itched for their wands. Hearing the boys' shouts, the wolf howled.

"I said – the fuck's – your problem!"

Severus shot a homemade hex at James, and at close range, it found its mark easily, slashing James across the arm, drawing blood. James did not seem even to notice. His hackles were raised.

"Don't talk like that about him!" James yelled. "You have no idea what he goes through! No! Fucking! Clue!"

Severus' suspicions had been confirmed, however, and his fury burst forth. "Go to hell! She's my friend, not yours, so shut up about it!"

They stared into each other's faces, eyes locked in unadulterated loathing, wands pointed.

Finally, James let go of Severus. Then, thinking of Moony and the threat Snape now posed if he chose to reveal his furry little problem, he reconsidered this mercy and shot a stinging hex at Snape's ankle. Severus staggered ahead, walking backward, wand extended dangerously.

"This changes nothing," Severus said. "I hope the whole lot of you gets expelled."

James threw up his arms in anger and disgust. "Piss off back to the dungeons. And don't come sneaking around in here again."

Moonlight spilled through the entrance below the willow's swaying branches. Severus tapped the knot and ran toward the castle.

James extracted his invisibility cloak from under his robes and threw it over himself. He wondered if Moony would have any recollection of this tomorrow. Because he owed Sirius a punch in the face, at the very least, for sending Snape down here.

He probably wouldn't do it, though. Moony was way too nice.

James watched the batlike shape half-flying toward the entrance hall, silhouetted by moonlight. This much had become clear to him – Snape fancied Evans as much as he did. And the bastard was already very much in her good graces.

The thought made James want to howl his lament into the night. But just at that moment, Moony did it for him.


	9. Salut: Slughorn and McGonagall

The Potions master hunched over his ingredients, stirring and squinting and calculating.

"Horace," she said.

"Just another moment, Minerva."

"Horace, it's really -"

"No trouble at all, no trouble at all, my dear."

He decanted something into a silver cup and hummed to himself. She recognized the tune as a very old and very bawdy song from the early 1940s. The sort of thing soldiers would have sung at the pub when on leave.

There was a blinding flash, and a thunderous bang, and a puff of green smoke.

At last, the portly Professor Slughorn turned around to face Professor McGonagall and handed her a heavy smoked-glass tumbler full of pale green liquid.

"Drink up. Happy birthday, and many happy returns," he said.

She looked down at what he had concocted for her.

A perfect vodka gimlet.


	10. Winded: Frank and Alice

"You've looked better, Alice," Frank says, looking up from the piano in the Gryffindor common room as she bursts through the portrait hole after running laps around the Quidditch pitch at the crack of dawn.

She is tiny and sweaty and almost out of breath. "Shut up, Longbottom," she pants, doubling over and stretching her calves, her hands touching the carpet. Her whole body is spattered with mud.

A moment later, the portrait swings open again and the Gryffindor Quidditch team gambols in, also sweaty and very dirty. The new chaser, something Potter, Frank thinks his name might be, is there, looking awfully cocksure for a skinny thirteen-year-old boy with glasses.

"Bloody hell, she did overtake us," says the Potter boy.

"By a full minute, it seems," says Frank, amused.

The players stumble off to have baths, but Alice isn't on the team, so she stays there, in the middle of the common room, stretching and still breathing hard.

"What are you doing chasing those sods when the sun is hardly up?"

"Training," she says. "To be an Auror."

He raises his eyebrows. "Oh. You don't have to train until they take you, you know. You just have to get the right NEWTs. I'm sort of in the same boat, as it were."

She stands up straight and crosses her arms. She is strangely intimidating, for such a small, bookish girl. "I'm five foot two and I have asthma. They're not exactly lining up to throw me in front of dark wizards. Not everyone looks like _you, _you great tall wanker. And, in case you didn't notice, they were chasing _me_."

He opens his mouth to speak but can't think of anything to say. Because apparently, while he's been coasting along on privilege and, well, _height_, she's been wearing herself out, planning for the future, already fighting for the cause. And, now he thinks about it, she has gotten rather more... fit.

"Thing is, they haven't taken anybody on for two years running. And if I don't get in, I don't know what the hell else to do. There is no backup plan," she sighs. "God, they'll take you in a heartbeat. I mean, just _look_ at you. You look like Michelangelo's bloody David. Only more English." She clutches a stitch in her side. "Bugger."

He's suddenly acutely aware of his body, and the fact that she is not only looking at it and talking about it but has clearly looked at it and thought about it before. "Erm."

"How are you doing on studying, by the way? I'm up to three hours a night," she says.

"Alright, I think. Well, except I'm pants at Herbology. Black thumb. Sprout thinks I'm a total ingrate. I think I've killed about a hundred plants over the years. She'll be glad to see the back of me."

"Too right, she will." Her eyes land on the piano. "And why are you tickling the ivory before breakfast, then? Waking up all the ickle firsties?"

"No, I couldn't sleep. I thought maybe some Beethoven. You know. Would help. But it didn't. Been here since four."

"Hmm. Yeah, you do have dark circles," she says, tapping her face just under her eyes. "Budge over."

He does. She sits next to him.

"Okay, let's hear it," she says.

She's so warm and pushy and sweaty and he realizes with a thrill of strangely welcome panic that he's half in love with her.

"Beethoven?" he asks.

"What do you want to play?"

"Well,_ I _wanted to play drums, but Mum put a stop to that when I was seven."

"Ah. Yes. She is a bit bossy, isn't she? Still," she says, flicking his hair in a casually intimate sort of way, "you came out alright."

"Erm. Thanks."

She grins an insane Cheshire cat grin. Her eyes glitter. "Look, Longbottom, are you going to snog me, or what? You've been making that slack-jawed face at me for fifteen minutes."

He smiles wryly back at her, mustering his coolness. "Yeah, alright. Bring that foul mouth over here."

Her elbow plonks down on the keys, and as they kiss for the first time, there is a discordant non-harmony of C, C sharp, and D. His musical ear is deeply offended. And she smears mud all over his pyjamas.

Fortunately, he knows the password to the prefects' bathroom, which comes in useful.


	11. Intuition: Poppy & Severus

Poppy Pomfrey keeps secrets. It's part of the profession. When you shepherd three-hundred-odd teenagers and a few less-than-stable staff through spots and cystitis and broken bones and broken hearts every year, you develop an excellent poker face.

So she won't ask Severus why he hovers near Harry Potter's half-comatose body after Sirius Black is captured and Remus Lupin is seen loose and wolfsbane-less on the grounds. Severus vanishes the stretchers that he conjured for Harry, Ron, and Hermione, who are all still unconscious. His face flashes through a range of expressions – anger, annoyance, and agony – before reforming as an impassive mask. Blink and you'd miss them. He does that a lot these days. She remembers him in his teens, and he did not have this level of self-censorship then. In fact, if memory serves, he was known for saying the wrong thing at the wrong time, and as a result, he frequently recovered from hexes and injuries in this very room. A spidery, skinny kid with a bloody nose. Once in a while, little Lily Evans would sit by his bed and talk with him in some secret language of their own invention.

The _agony_ is the odd part. Snape looks at Potter as if terrified the boy will die and offended that he exists at all.

Then the Minister for Magic blusters in with his lime green bowler hat and his overblown sense of self-importance, and Snape skitters off to join him at the edge of the ward.

Poppy has a theory about why that particular boy may be of interest to Severus. But she knows better than to ask.

She chips off another fist-sized piece of chocolate with her small hammer and waits for her charges to wake.


	12. Smoke: Aberforth & Grindelwald

Aberforth hovers over the stove, frying tomatoes and bacon and toast on an unusually cool August morning.

His brother and his brother's exotic new friend confer at the kitchen table, circling mountain ranges on maps and underlining passages in books. Albus bites his nails in his excitement. Gellert pushes the conversation forward, letting Albus think that he hasn't noticed his furtive glances, his breathy laugh. Aberforth is old enough to know that his brother is smitten – by his own brilliance as much as Gellert's blond eyelashes. Here are two boys who think they are the exception to all rules.

Gellert saunters over to the kitchen and swipes some toast from Aberforth's pile without any acknowledgment that Aberforth is there. Albus summons another heavy book from a pile on the floor.

Aberforth smells burning and looks around for the source. The curtains have caught fire. Ariana stands beside them, looking lost and wild. Another outburst of magic, another paroxysm of fear or love or simply great ability untethered by training. Her hair has come undone from its long auburn braid.

"Finite. Aguamenti," says Aberforth, and the fire is extinguished.

Albus still hasn't looked up. Gellert leans lazily against the dark wood sideboard, licking jam off his long fingers.

It's too much for Aberforth. "Pay attention for once in your charmed life, Albus!"

The argument begins.


	13. Rats: Peter & Lily

"You're sweet, aren't you?" Lily says, picking up the chubby rat that has wandered into the girls' dormitory. It wiggles its whiskers at her. "I think Potter's lost you again. Shall we go up and see?"

She scratches him behind the ears and then stuffs him into the chest pocket of her paisley pyjamas. She ascends the stairs, chattering in low, soft tones to the rat, who seems to hang on her words, much to her amusement.

She pushes open the door to the fifth-year boys' dormitory.

"Potter, your rat got out again," she says. "You really ought to keep a closer eye on him."

James stares at the rat in her pocket. "That so?"

She holds the rat out to him. The rat licks its paw in an eager sort of way that makes her laugh. "Cheeky little rat you've got there."

James snatches the rat out of her hand. "Yeah. He's a prat."

She frowns. "That's not a very nice way to talk about your pet."

"Yeah, well, he's not your rat, is he? He knows he's going straight in the sock drawer for this."

She throws up her hands. "I will never understand you, Potter. Just when I start to think you're alright you go all insufferable again. If it's not hexing first-years, it's cruelty to animals."

She clicks the door shut behind her.

The rat squeaks.

"Stuff it, Peter," says James. "Now we'll never have a proper map of the girls' dormitories."


	14. Is This The End: Rose and Scorpius

Lily Potter holds court on her broomstick, hovering eight feet off the ground, balancing on the toes of her fresh pink kicks with the confidence of her famously arrogant grandfather. Keeper tryouts are about to begin, and she surveys the candidates with a squint and a wink.

"Your cousin is awfully dramatic, isn't she," mutters Scorpius Malfoy, who sits in the stands next to Rose Weasley, sharing a box of every-flavor beans.

"Don't be an ass," says Rose. "You don't know what it's like for her."

"And what's that?"

"She's a Potter, for one. People expect all sorts of things from her."

"People expect all sorts of things from me, too."

"I know." He offers her one bud from his iPod and she tucks it into her ear. "Does your Dad know you have this?" she asks.

"Nah. He doesn't. You like it?"

The music is melancholy and jaunty at the same time, brash hip-hop grafted onto a moody loop of sampled eighties synths. "Not bad," she says. "Ugh, I think I just ate a petrol-flavored one."

He pops another bean into his mouth and smirks at her. "Told you, can't go wrong with the red ones."

"Not so. There's blood flavor."

"Weasley, you are the queen of loopholes."

"I'm not sure if I take offense to that," she says.

"You shouldn't. It's one of my patented cryptic compliments."

Scorpius tosses his floppy blond hair in front of his eyes and pulls a face at Rose. He drips with irony, per usual. She chuckles.

Albus appears at the top of the stairs and jogs over to them. "What did I miss?"

"Your sister is fighting valiantly against people's expectations," says Scorpius.

"And this berk's eaten all the red ones," says Rose.

Albus nods. "Sounds about right. Give us a green one, then."

Nobody voices what they are all thinking: that this is their last year at Hogwarts, and they wonder if their trio will last forever, or if these are their last days snarking and laughing and being too smart for their own good. Whether this is a beginning, or an end.


	15. Reparo: Remus & Teddy

Teddy is perfect, actually.

He's this little miracle that they unfolded from his mother's body this morning, and who sleeps in her arms now, his hair cycling through a rainbow of colors on each inhale.

Remus Lupin's reverence has never been greater. And he's still a bit loopy from the five glasses of wine at Shell Cottage. Four years after declaring himself unfit to teach children, and decades after deciding that he could never, ever engender one, he has a child. A baby. A totally whole, un-wolfish baby.

He looks like Dora, although he might have the Lupin nose. Then again, that could just be the nose of the moment. Maybe they'll wake up tomorrow and he'll have a whole new one – a beak, maybe, or a button.

Remus finally understands that shit-eating grin James used to make when he carried around his little lookalike in that cotton papoose. That grin that said _look what I made_.

Harry looks exactly like him now, minus the shit-eating grin.

And if Teddy grows up looking anything like Dora, he will break a _lot_ of hearts.

But first, he has mended one heart that was more tattered and patched than its owner's traveling cloak.


	16. You're Actually Joking: Percy & Audrey

"Dude," said Audrey Weasley between bites of bacon sandwich, which was courtesy of her new mother-in-law, "dude, that is the cutest thing I've ever seen."

They were at the Burrow, watching Percy's eight-year-old niece Victoire and nine-year-old Teddy Lupin, who were playing in the treehouse Charlie had built in the back yard. Victoire was requesting a long list of funny noses, and Teddy was obliging her by metamorphosing his face.

Percy raised an eyebrow at Audrey. "Why are you always calling me dude?" he asked.

"Because I like seeing your proper English face go all uncomfortable when I do."

"I am certainly _not_ uncomfortable. I have a massive tolerance for eccentricity. And your Yankee mannerisms."

"Dude," she said again, just to mess with him. "You are _such_ a Mr. Darcy."

Teddy's hair had gone the same shade of blond as Victoire's. He often mimicked people he was fond of. Victoire was now trying to teach him some French, apparently.

"Dude," said Percy, with a terrible American accent, "you wanna make some of those?"

Audrey bit her lip. "Funny faces, you mean?"

"Nope. Kiddos."

She offered him the crusts of her sandwich; she really only liked the middles of sandwiches, so it was nice being married to someone who preferred the crusts. He nibbled them and the corners of his eyes crinkled in silent amusement.

"Y'all are babymakers, aren't you?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, again with that horrible cowboy accent. He pronounced the consonants a little too hard; it was like Texas and the Bronx at the same time.

"Alright. I can get down with that," she said. "Pencil me into your schedule, mister."

He tipped an imaginary cowboy hat at her. "Lady, I got you pencilled in every night this week."


	17. Time and Timing: Neville & Hannah

Neville was accustomed to waking up with his nose buried in blonde hair, but Luna was in Tibet and would not be back for another three months, so he felt disoriented. He inhaled – hops and honey and roses. _Hannah._ Lovely Hannah Abbott. His knees pressed into the backs of hers.

Well, this was a surprise.

Not an unpleasant one, either.

Since becoming an Auror, Neville had developed a habit of popping round to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink on Friday evenings, sometimes with Ron and Harry, sometimes not. He had struck up a friendship with Hannah, who owned the place and moonlighted behind the bar. He had always known who she was, of course, and they had said one or two things to each other at school – things like 'Hey, pass the pruning shears' and 'No, I don't think Harry is making this up' and 'Fuck Snape, fuck the Carrows, take this dungbomb, you know what to do with it.' But they hadn't really spoken at length until the Friday night routine got going, and it had been going for two years.

Her bedsheets were printed with little blue police boxes. He grinned, recalling that she was a total Doctor Who fangirl.

Her bedroom had two windows, and as the room was above the Leaky Cauldron, it was also a liminal zone – one window looked out on Muggle London, where a graffitied dumpster slumped against a shabby-looking government building, and the other overlooked Diagon Alley, where morning owls circled over the pointed roofs of magical emporia. A room between two worlds.

Sensing he had woken, she stirred. "Hi," she said.

"Hi," he said. "Nice sheets."

"Thanks," she said, turning her body toward him, untangling her pyjama-clad legs from his. "Sleep well?"

"Yeah. Reckon so. Don't recall waking up before this. I would have remembered those sheets. And you."

She raised an eyebrow, and a smile pulled at one corner of her mouth. Her lovely tulip-pink mouth. "You're sweet," she said. "You should have been in Hufflepuff."

"I asked. The Sorting Hat said no. I feel like an arse at the moment, actually. I'm sort of fuzzy on the details of how I got here."

"Have a guess, Auror."

He grinned. "Okay. Too many pints, couldn't Apparate home, didn't want to call Gran, you took pity on me."

"More or less," she said. "You usually hold your liquor a lot better than this, Longbottom."

He registered her use of his surname. She was _teasing_ him. In her soft-spoken Hufflepuff way. Her breath was on his face, her nose inches from his.

"Don't worry, you were a perfect gentleman," she said, poking him in the shin with her cold toes. "No snogging. No awkward confessions."

"Spooning, though," he said.

"Yeah. But it's January, and my heating charm's gone off, what do you expect?"

He shrugged, which was hard to do when you were lying on one side. "Do you wear perfume to bed?" he asked.

"No."

"Oh." _Interesting. _"Well, thanks for rescuing me. I don't want to impose any further."

"Stay for breakfast," she said. "I'll put it on your tab."

He grinned again. She was _fun_.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed and stretched her arms. Her loose hair fell in a wheat-colored sheet down her back.

"Hannah. These aren't my pyjamas," he said, fiddling with the cuffs on the striped green ones he was wearing.

"Oh, no. You couldn't wear Auror robes to bed, so I found those for you."

"Whose are they?"

"My ex."

"Oh. Well, I think I'll take them off."

She turned around, smirking.

"And put my_ robes_ back on, Abbott. I'm not going to pad about your flat in the nude," he said.

Her smirk deepened. "Alright," she said. "I was just curious. You look fit. Must be all that running around catching dark wizards."

"Actually, it's a lot more paperwork than people think," he said. "But thanks. You look nice, too."

She yawned and stretched again, and the hem of her pyjama top cleared the waistband of the bottoms, exposing her shallow belly button and the tops of her hips.

"Kitchen's through there," she said, pointing. Then she sauntered down a narrow hallway decorated with floral wallpaper that moved subtly – petals stirring, buds gently opening – like wizard photographs.

As he dressed, he thought of Luna, and of the things she had told him over and over – that she loved him, that he was her best friend, but that she was married to her work, and he ought to think about finding someone local. That she would always travel, and that he would always want to stay in one place. He missed her, and he had resisted, but she was probably right. She almost always was, in the end.

A minute later, he found Hannah by the stove, swirling a pot of boiling water with her wand and poaching eggs in it. The kitchen windowbox, which overlooked Diagon Alley, was planted with rosemary and thyme and blue African basil.

"Thing is," he said, setting the table with his wand, "I wouldn't be opposed to some snogging and awkward confessions."

Hannah beamed at him. "Alright," she said. "But first things first. How serious are you and Luna?"

Neville poked through the cupboard and found Hannah's stash of tea leaves, which she kept in a tin shaped like a TARDIS. "That depends," he said. "How serious are you and David Tennant?"


	18. Unspeakables: Tonks & Teddy

Teddy felt uncertain about the prospect of working for the Department of Mysteries, but Hermione had very kindly set up an interview, so he'd come. His interview robes felt stiff, new, and overly starched.

"Can you see yourself out?" asked the harried Unspeakable who had spent the last hour asking him seemingly tangential questions about his interests and tasking him with riddles about kneazles and heffalumps. "Only, be careful when you pass the third corridor, someone smashed about a hundred thousand time turners down there, and sometimes very odd things happen."

Teddy nodded. Sure, this was the Department of Mysteries. This was hardly the weirdest thing she had said to him during their bizarre interview. He shook her hand and followed the coal-colored tile corridor, chuckling inwardly at the absurdity of the day.

Well, it was nice of Hermione to offer. He would have to send a thank-you owl. He began composing one in his head, and did not realize he hadn't paid attention to his surroundings until something fast and fuchsia slammed into him.

No, not something, he decided as he was knocked off-balance. Someone. He caught her shoulders to keep them both from crashing to the floor.

"Fuck. Sorry," said the witch who had just face-planted herself in his chest. She looked up at him with dark, twinkling eyes and frantically brushed down the front of her robes. She was shorter than he was, but not by much. Her hair was vividly pink.

He recognized her instantly.

"Have you seen Alastor?" she asked. "Only, it's my third week and I still can't find my way around this bloody place. These corridors all look the same."

She was prettier in person than in photos. She looked a little like Gran, and in a strange way, even a little like Victoire – something about the way her face was always smiling, even if she didn't seem to be smiling on purpose.

"Yeah, they do," Teddy said, stunned, but catching his breath. "I was just thinking that. But no, I haven't seen... anybody else."

"Ah, well. He's got a magical eye. He can come and find me himself if it's that urgent," she said, a grin tugging up the corners of her mouth. "Are you new as well?" she asked. "No, can't be, you look school-age."

"Erm, no, I've only just interviewed. I don't think I'll take the job even if they offer, though, honestly. I'm not that keen on brains in tanks."

"Yeah. Take my advice, do something you like doing. Life is short, isn't it," she said, raking her pale fingers through her brilliantly bubblegum-pink hair.

"Thanks. I'll keep that in mind," he said.

She laughed and shook her head. "You don't have to be so nice to me," she said. "___I'm _not interviewing you. This isn't a test. Although the gentleman thing is working for you. We don't get that much around here. Pack of arrogant, chain-smoking conspiracy theorists, most of the Auror office. I'm almost ready to throw in the towel and go out with Dawlish."

"Oh, don't do that. I'm sure you'll meet someone nice very soon," he said.

"Ta, love," she said. "You are sweet."

She looked at her watch. He looked at her. He thought he could look at her for weeks and never tire of it. He noticed she often shifted her weight from one foot to another, as if constantly thinking about where to go next. How old was she – twenty-one, twenty-two? In another year, she would meet his father, and in another three years, she would be dead. It seemed impossible. She was so vivid, so full of ___joi de vivre_, so...___pink_.

"Lupin," she said.

His jaw dropped. "What?"

She giggled. "S'on your visitor's badge. E. Lupin. That's an interesting name. Haven't heard it before."

"Er, yeah, there aren't a lot of us. French name, I think, originally. Huguenots."

She squinted at his badge again.

"Well, E. Lupin of Wolverhampton, it was nice meeting you."

She held out her hand. Her nails, lacquered in chipped violet polish, twinkled. The back of her hand was rubber-stamped with faded blue ink that said The Weird Sisters, which evidently she hadn't felt like metamorphosing off after the concert. He shook her hand and looked into her dark eyes, wondering how many times he had looked into them as a baby.

She beamed at him, and then winced. "You are fit, aren't you? I'd ask you to go out with me if you were a little older. But anyway, good luck with everything. Nice meeting you."

"Yeah. Very nice meeting you as well. Really, really nice, actually," he said, taking her hand. So warm and solid.

She grinned. "It's funny, I don't remember you from school."

"I think we just missed each other."

"Must have. Anyway. I'd love to stay and chat, but I'm supposed to talk to Kingsley about something. Maybe we'll run into each other again sometime."

"Maybe we will."

She shot him a parting look of radiant warmth, bounded down the dark corridor, and disappeared.

For a long moment he stood, irresolute, smiling and wiping his eyes and regarding the place where she had just been.

Perhaps there was something compelling about this Department of Mysteries job after all.


	19. Dragons: Charlie & Victoire

"Go on, go and pet him. He's only a baby," said Charlie.

Victoire looked from her uncle to the ten-foot-long Welsh green and back again. Sunset painted the pebbly beach in sherbet colors – orange and pink. Teddy nudged her in the ankle with his bare, sand-dusted toes.

"Go on," said Teddy. "When are you ever going to get the chance to pet a baby dragon again?"

"Why don't you do it, then?" she asked.

"Because I'm a bloke. They like girls better."

"Do they?" she asked, disappointed that a tremulous note had crept into her voice.

Waves licked at the shore, depositing bits of shell and polished sea glass and plastic rings that held once held together six-packs of soda. The dragon tilted its saurian head and blinked at her with unexpectedly doe-like eyes. She melted.

"Alright," she said. "Alright, I'm doing it." She stuffed her wand into her swimming costume and approached the dragon. Wet sand squelched under her feet.

"I'll take a picture," Teddy called after her.

Charlie beamed at her. "You'll be great," he said. "Just hold out your hand. Let him come to you. Keep your wand at the ready, just in case, but I doubt you'll need it."

Victoire stretched out her arm. The dragon exhaled hot breath against the underside of her wrist. "I think Mum had one of these in the Triwizard," she said.

"Nesting mother, though," said Charlie. "Totally different story. This one's an orphan, best I can tell."

Victoire looked into the dragon's eyes – dark and curious, and just a little bit dangerous.

"Hi," she said.

She covered her mouth in surprise as the dragon pressed his smooth, hard nose against the heel of her other hand. She laughed with pleasure.

"Oh, hi," she said.

"Turn toward the camera," Teddy said, grinning and clicking his Nikon at her. "You look like Daenerys bloody Targaryen."

Victoire turned her body toward Teddy and smoothed her hand across the dragon's long, verdant snout.

"He likes you," said Charlie.

"Yeah, I think he does," she said, unsure whether her uncle was referring to the great serpent nuzzling her hand or the new boyfriend snapping pictures of them both.


	20. Golden: Tonks & Luna

She still thought of herself as Tonks. However, she was warming to the name Dora, because it sounded so lovely coming out of Remus' mouth – his pale, post-moon mouth some days, or his lower lip flushed red and bitten with barely suppressed desire on other days.

Remus had slinked off to the champagne fountain to confer with Arthur, leaving her alone at the edge of the wedding tent. Summer Burrow scents carried to her on the wind – wildflowers, dried corn scattered before chickens, motor oil from Sirius' bike hidden in the henhouse. Her sense of smell had already heightened. As she sipped her pumpkin juice, she could have sworn she could smell the pumpkins ripening in the sun before they were picked. She could certainly see them in her mind's eye – round, orange, pregnant with seeds and pulp.

"Congratulations," said an airy voice from a yellow pillar in Dora's peripheral vision.

Dora turned. "Wotcher, Luna," she said.

Dora remembered Luna from that night over a year ago at the Department of Mysteries, although they hadn't really spoken at length, since they were both fighting and both injured. Luna looked brilliant in her sunflower headpiece and saffron robes. Dora made mental note of the colors, bookmarking them for later hair-color experiments. Now that she could metamorphose again, she was happily making her way through the color wheel.

Dora held up her wedding ring, and its tiny diamond jittered with torchlight. "Thanks very much."

"Oh, yes. It's good that you've married each other. I meant the other thing, too," said Luna.

"Er," said Dora, sipping her pumpkin juice, "about moving Harry, you mean?"

"Oh, no. I meant the baby. I don't know you terribly well, but I do think you will be a very nice Mum. And Professor Lupin is good with children, isn't he? Everyone liked him at school, except Draco Malfoy, but Draco is a bit closed-minded. Do you know the sex yet?"

Dora knit her brows a moment. Then she shook her head and smiled, realizing she had just made a very Remus-y face. "It's only just happened," said Dora. "Did – did Remus tell you?"

Perhaps this was too much to hope for. He had seemed upset when she told him about the baby last night. But if he was telling people about it –

"No, it's just the way you're standing," said Luna. "You keep touching your stomach and smiling. Although I suppose a particularly friendly intestinal parasite might lead one to do the same."

Dora snorted quietly into her pumpkin juice. When she lowered her glass, she said, "Thank you. You're the only other person who knows right now. I haven't even told Molly. Or my Mum."

"I'll keep it secret, if you'd like. People don't usually talk to me at parties, anyway," said Luna. She said this without an ounce of self-pity. Not in the lonely, noble-prat way Remus would have done, but in a truly detached, objective way. She was an odd bird, Luna, but her charm did sneak up on you.

"Thanks," said Dora. "I was really impressed with you at the Ministry, by the way. You could be an Auror."

"Oh, no, I don't think so. Rotfang conspiracy, you know."

Dora opened her mouth to reply, but the atmosphere in the tent shifted, and Dora instinctively drew her wand. The canvas walls were bathed in silver-blue light, and Kingsley's lynx Patronus spoke with his slow, deep voice.

As the tumult broke around them, Dora had one last glimpse of Luna Lovegood, striding calmly through the melee of Apparating bodies, tables knocked aside, and shattering wine glasses. Luna, walking serenely toward her father.

Her father, whom she loved.

Oh, how Dora wanted that for this baby. But she lost track of Remus in the fray.


End file.
